


The Good Intentions Paving Company

by TenWoolf



Series: Have One On Me [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Band Fic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Music Festival, Professor Derek Hale, Road Trip, Song fic, alcohol use, is Drunk Stiles a tag?, my kingdom for scholar derek fic, they all have bands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2923517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the old way that roads in California oscillate so soundly that really gets Stiles' heart pumping. When Allison steps on the gas for long stretches of asphalt on the coast line he can feel the heat of the tires right from his seat. All of which the highway patrol recommends against given that the bitumen in the roads are probably older than him and every wild post-teen in that repurposed Chevy van with self rattling hubcaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like I'm In A Fist Fight With A Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely on the lovely song of the same name by Joanna Newsom (and all chapter titles are from it)
> 
>  ~~I didn't write any of this while I was drunk, wahoo.~~  
>  I wrote a lot of the second chapter while drunk wahooo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jan 21 2016; Made a couple hamfisted edits! All the continuity errors and typo I was ignoring are gone.

 

It’s the old way that roads in California oscillate so soundly that really gets Stiles' heart pumping. When Allison steps on the gas for long stretches of asphalt on the coast line he can feel the heat of the tires right from his seat. All of which the highway patrol recommends against given that the bitumen in the roads are probably older than him and every wild post-teen in that re-purposed 1995 Chevy Astro cargo van with self rattling hubcaps.

The van was Good Up Jo' and she took them to the far reaches of the California hills to one of the best supernatural events in the Western Hemisphere; Hell Sparrow Island's 67th annual music festival.

They weren't headlining or anything, certainly not for any stars in a cultural movement that lasted for over half a century. But their name was printed at the bottom of every flyer circulated by countless emissaries, priestesses, shamans and spiritualists with a small congregation. They were right between The God Dang Gang and Officer Officer, respectfully.

Stiles had gone over the headlining list several times, really committing those names to his memory and occasionally googling for free or cheap album downloads in some wild attempt at possible conversation pieces. He wasn't a groupie or band-aid seeking some kind of attention from small community celebrities. He just really really liked shit like WerePunk and Third Wave SupNat Ska (emphasis on anyone who could trumpet a Dance Hall Crashers hit on a whim). Despite being unbelievably without tune and possibly the biggest jittery stick figure in all of California, he desperately adored live music and the prospect of being around real talent that could make his bones shake with good melodies.

Not that Allison's and Scott's band didn't make his bones shake. His bones definitely vibrated on medium speed when they played, medium-high speed if Kira's bass was connected the way it was intended to. And if Lydia got her tempo right, she could break the sound barrier with her drum kit.

But if The Good Intention's Paving Company had anything going for them, it was how Allison and Scott harmonized. Allison always lead in with these delicate little quips of lyrics, almost like free form poetry in strips of light, and then Scott follows her with long sweet bass notes. They sang liked they kissed, as Stiles sometimes put it, and they kiss like film stars who went to school for it, who published dissertations on kissing. No selection of people could sing or kiss better than the Wolf and the Archer, as one very eloquent Beacon Hills journalist had written a year into their first tour.

And Stiles was the Paving Company's techie, solely responsible for every piece of equipment that could get broken, could get fixed, has been fixed, and is currently held together with 3600 or duct tape depending on where its usually positioned for the stage (duct taped sound equipment gets hidden behind the glued-on-a-prayer drum kit).

Not that Stiles even minded being the techie, since the group obviously needed it. Lydia could McGyver her way out of anything but it never necessarily means she's going to actually do it and Kira only has the dependency of wikipedia and guidebooks behind her (she can read a map like a cartographer giving a critique). Allison may have been comfortably stationed as the gatekeeper for all the band's plans and futures but she still begrudgingly set up sound equipment that had her name and phone number magic markered onto the sides.

The Paving Company sped along down the interstate with the willpower of a locust storm and twice the appetite (but not for festival food). A grocery store pit stop was a requirement before hitting the void of nowhere. So it was in the last Safeway before their entire weekend of lost boys adventures Stiles found the perfect companion to any non-hotel based journey; a guide to the night sky for Northern California (happily shoved between a display of roses and heavily scented vanilla candles).

Kira would later claim she found it and absolutely everyone would believe her. But the real struggle was even getting the thing out the door given the fact that one mean, heavily dressed wolf was blocking the way out of the floral section with a bag of sweet potatoes in his hands like a bag of trash.

"Excuse me," He said, gruff hoarseness in his voice that hinted those might have been the first words he had said that day.

"You're kind of squishing me into some candles, man." Stiles replied, giving more credit to the seasonal candles than to the wolf who wasn't entirely squishing him (but might as well have been at this proximity). Not that actual squishing would go unasked for given Stiles penchant for husky voices. A penchant he did not dare share with anyone save for husky voiced people. And it was not at all the time to mention such a penchant.

The wolf awkwardly stepped back, huffing what should have been a sigh if he wanted to not be associated with dog stereotypes, and let Stiles through without making eye contact again. Stiles glanced back while walking away, seeing the wolf approaching a brunette woman about four or five years his senior who had been laughing at obnoxiously printed birthday cards. She seemed excited about the sweet potatoes but slightly judgmental about the selection.

Even in Stiles' excitement for the map, Allison wouldn't let him pay for it, tossing it right in with the boxes of cereal and tissues. But oddly, the barcode didn't read. It made sense since grocery stores seldom carried star guides. Also made sense given that Stiles was very good at finding things that didn't belong. A cashier, probably not more that twenty two and appropriately apathetic for that age, just suggested that they take it since charging $7.85 for an item that wasn't there's to sell was not worth the hassle of explaining it later. And thus, Stiles acquired an abandoned book of stars to a sky he'd never seen.

In the evening, over a meal of fig newtons and hard cider, they all steadied themselves on the over hood of Good Up Jo' and called out constellations like they were new forming clouds. Lydia tried her best to just yell out the right patterns, Kira and Scott checking as she went. There was a beauty to the lightened terrain of Hell Sparrow, a shivering display of wild sunsets falling on the hill of a thousand other vans and cars, all spewing with super natural creatures of lore and mythos.

They were outside Hell Sparrow because no one just got on to Hell Sparrow island before the festival started and the damned bird of legend sat its feathered ass on the biggest birch tree.

The Paving Company stuck back to where the campers of other bands and good for something patrons just ended, some five miles from the actual show grounds. And in the ocher darkness every quip at friendship seemed perfectly humble with the dull intoxication of wine and watery beer. But Allison demanded one last night for themselves as a company of wayward lost children from a small town just south.

When Allison was younger she'd been to the Hell Sparrow festival with her family and she'll swear on the pits of her crossbow that strange things happened every year. Not the kind of strangeness that falls on mystery novels or over zealous tv shows. The strangeness of life lived at a much faster pace. You come out of the show feeling drunk on youth but finding more wrinkles on your face than when you arrived. Allison's aunt described it as "the cruelty of pilgrimage for spirits" and that the "aloe of normalcy fades those wrinkles". People come out of it changed outside of those wrinkles.

Least to say, Stiles was excited. Music that drove him and spirits that refined him? Sounds as novel as Allison denies it to be.

When they all found themselves tired from the quiet they produced and the stars lay unmoving above them like a blanket, Stiles went adventuring in sorts. He liked just walking, both while tipsy and sober, His determination was driven by a half drunk bottle of cider and partially weak knees, tripping on unknown stones in the middle of the down turned country road. It seemed like all the over-half-a-century hubbub was shrouded in mystery left to be discovered by normal humans. But no one minded the normal humans like him, so he concluded at least. At least Allison came with the diatribe of Artemis behind her, curdled in the locket of a necklace, to be the poison she dips her arrows in.

Stiles just had sarcasm. Or, the excuses of ignorance. Maybe youth? Or maybe not if some stupid magical Sparrow is gonna give him wrinkles.

So he adventured at a steady meander through humble camp sides with tiny little fires, full feasts in solo cups and paper plates, and the warm smell of hard liquor in the air. The full furrows of bands and band goers were all up to enact the first night of Hell, before the sparrow. Drunken dourly shape shifters and witches all pulled out instruments they could and could not play, effortlessly expelling whatever expectations any newbies like Stiles had about the crowd. He could tell this would be a wild ride.

But not as wild as what could have been a a punch to the gut had he ventured any further in to a tented section of gazebos-to-go and very definite growling sounds. The aggressive kind of growling that Scott never made but knew he could.

As Stiles got close enough to the tents to peer in, but not close enough for the tears in the nylon to get a whiff of his smell, he saw the shapes of men and wolves going wild with agitated strikes. The tears in the tent walls made sense. Stiles kept watching the general silhouettes roundhouse and slice at limbs, in awe at how the furry bodies shifted in and out of wolf form to keep the fights fair. The small crowd, if you could call six people a crowd, rambled out whoops and hollers with sloshing cups of beer and whiskey wetting their pallets. It seemed well enough that these beat downs were consensual, catching wide tooth smiles on the wolves.

Stiles moved in closer, damning his stench even if it was Scott's shirt he'd stolen to wear. It was a problem they'd all have to address eventually, the smell of an omega American werewolf roaming around with humans. A beta on humans was acceptable, figuring their pack was just full of all sorts as any pack was. But an omega was like a lost little kitten who needed a home. And werewolves loved helping lost little pups despite their best attempts at control. So the sweet smell of Scotty would bounce around the fest, with Allison safe at his side to fend off pack mothers and alphas with the best intentions. Because no intentions were better than the Paving Company.

Maybe having his lingering scent on random camp equipment would just normalize Scott's presence faster. At least, that's the kind of logic Stiles operated on after 4 bevs.

The sight was worth it, seeing how the wolves and men threw their punches like waving flags for the pride of some rare occurrence. They looked so beside themselves with joy over making contact with teeth to skin and knuckles to bone. The occasional pull of an embrace was inevitable, swinging down the ground in laughter and whines of cackling euphoria. Everyone in the tent was a mess of dirt, stains of blood and cuts, spilled whiskey and the neediness of smiles.

Their rough housing was brilliant, like the excuse to show aggression brought them closer. And Stiles kind of admired it. He grew up with a cop dad and coddling mom so all playground fights amounted to 15 seconds before the crying started and Stiles got taken home. And no one messes with a deputy's kid in kindergarten when said kid refuses to shut up about gross crime scenes and really gross crime scene photos.

It didn't occur to Stiles that his peeping might be entirely rude and if someone were to point it out to him, he'd still probably not quite understand that it was rude.

"You lost, kid?" A gruff voice broke Stiles' fixation, full on pulling him from a long daydream in the space of three words.

Some guy, not exactly visible in the low levels of the stolen light seeping from the tent, stood off to the side with a large box of Guinness. His arms were slung under it effortlessly and it pulled on the sleeves of his thing maroon sweater, its moth eaten collar stretched out in the front.

Stiles dropped his mostly-empty bottle, making a dramatic, elongated and entirely unnecessary " nooooo " as it toppled over his own shoes and rolled over to the guy. Or wolf, definitely from his physical demeanor. Which was also familiar... The same wolf from earlier? From the grocery store? Absolutely not. He could make out the same texture of beard and shapely hair line, slightly tussled since their maybe first encounter. But the same piercing eyes from earlier radiated in what light there was with the imperfections of a colorless diamond.

"Sweet potatoes?" Stiles cocked his head and then tried to shake as much of the booze from his canvas and very hydrophilic shoes.

The wolf stared on with extreme confusion, communicating a lifetime of frustration through his eyebrows alone. He absolutely was the Sweet Potato Wolf.

"Sorry, I'm pretty sure I ran in to you earlier at Safeway. I mean you ran in to me, um. Yeah. Right sorry also, your party, I'm guessing?" Stiles shyly slurred in tipsy fashion, rubbing the wet dirt into itself. He nervously ran his fingers up the back of his scalp, pulling at the hairs that had been so freshly trimmed for a wide strip undercut.

The wolf keeps on staring, like Stiles might be an aggressively cute bunny to chase if he just waited for him to start bolting down the road back to safety. But his eyes were just set on his face, not darting up and down him in any kind of judgment.

He finally says, after the better half of a minute washes past, "...Pack fight. The wolves of a couple territories only see each other on Hell Night."

"Pack fights always involved Guinness?" Stiles pointed, relaxing into a gangly limbed gesture and chuckling.

"Only the good ones," The wolf broke and gave a nervous smile, wide toothed and ambient. His sharpened canines had a mild sincere bite to them.

The small gap of silence floated between them like oncoming fog, comfortably awkward in how natural it felt to be around someone who just really liked to glare at you. And if a glare could have a drop of affection to it, right in the back of the eyes where all the force of sympathy was contained for emergencies, this wolf just had it. This wolf....

"I'm Stiles, yeah. Totally can tell your pack a dumb kid named Stiles crashed your um, outside tent party and that's what is keeping you, which I probably am, keeping you." He rambled, very intent on at least making himself seem more of a rambling drunk than a silent brooding kind who peeped on party tents. And maybe the wolf might drop his name t-

"Derek." The wolf, Derek, replied. He pointed to himself with the free set of fingers not caught in cardboard. "And I don't recognize your pack scent but you're welcome to join. We don't discriminate."

It takes Stiles an extra second to realize he's been wearing this shirt all goddamned day, thoroughly soaked in his own smell in the kind of weird interlacing where top notes and secondary notes become one awkward melody.

He tries extra hard to stutter out, "Oh I'm, I'm not a werewolf. I spend all my time with one, my buddy Scott. And his girlfriend! We're in a van all the time together, for a band. We're playing on um, Sunday."

Derek just flares his nose in the weird form of judging Stiles didn't want to see. But he breaks it easily and says, "Come have a beer."

 

\--

 

Derek has a sister. Two sisters. Three? Depending on the definition of sister that separates pack and family if its even important to separate.

Stiles is an only child with no savory aunts or uncles. This shit is new to him.

The first sister, whom he's already seen as a vision of beauty who likes laughing at greeting cards, introduces herself after she's sucker punched a wall of a man. Laura, the make-shift Alpha in wake of their mother's recent death (at the mention of Talia, a short howl and raising of glasses goes out), pulls Stiles into a short embrace like she's known him all her life. The conversation isn't much when her sights are set on opening a beer with her bare hands. Stiles is not sure if her affections were sincere wolf feelings or sincere drunk girl feelings.

The inside of the tent had been a little under whelming compared to the restricted level of sight provided by the torn little peep hole. It was in effect, just how any dirt floor party tent would look like. All the light was provided by a single flood lamp above and its field of shining ambiance was foggy in the constantly kicked up dust. A quaint series of coolers acted as unused chairs with everyone participating at a stand. It's oddly comforting to be accepted in to the whirlwind of a young werewolf lair, essentially just hoping it's not a secret ruse to eat him. But he'd never say this outloud. Hopefully. He's started on a beer, it's anyone's game.

The odd series of aggressive wolves was kind of charming in the way they romped around like children. No dirty tricks or hair pulling. Just rough and tumble landings on top of quickly healing cracked ribs and cuts and bruises.

Laura had tried to pull Stiles in playfully, grasping at the hem of his sleeve and tugging blindly. But Derek took her hand into a deceiving twist, looping his arms around her waist and twirling her back in to the fray like a spun top. And this kept on for the rest of the evening, Derek acted closer to Stiles than he actually was, helping him shy away at opportune moments when a claw might tip him into a brawl or a question might make him wanna bawl.

It feels natural for Stiles, wandering in and out of Derek's comforts zone like an unwavering satellite intent on its own personal revolutions. He moves and Derek follows; Derek moves and he's bound by invisible thread.

Its the thread that tightens when Derek's second sister sets upon Stiles, out of breath and curious. Cora is like an AMA fighter's trading card, pristine photo worthy in sweat and grinding teeth, wrapped fists like a gift to man kind. She had the gumption of a scar clad fighter even if she healed so mythically. And her impression of Stiles wasn't the tipsy prodigal child gaze that Laura had, she aired herself formally and unperturbed.

"What pack are you with?" She asked, knocking back vitamin water and flipping her long braid to her shoulder.

Derek dodged the question for him, not even letting him get a dumb founded "Ummm" out to concoct an idiotic lie. "Boyd is glaring at you," Derek said pointing behind her, like it was a magic stitched code word that only wolves tossed around. But she bought it, looking over her side at nowhere in particular and flashing a glare back to Derek. She nodded at Stiles and gave what seemed a rare forced smile and went on her way.

Light conversation flowed in and out, nothing prodding or sensitive or anything Stiles could really contribute to. He didn't actually talk to Derek during the night, but he didn't exactly have the chance. Derek was so popular among all these wolves and their barrage of questions and anecdotes proved that. Which, Stiles didn't even mind considering what he was hearing over so many clinking bottles. Wolf after wolf, briefly chatting over the distant growls, approached him from some declaring response to previous conversations or excitedly embracing him in the accusation that it had been years since they'd seen his ugly mug. They all dropped hints at who Derek was, proud wordsmith and essayist, a legend in the shape shifter fighting circuit, and an accidental hometown hero.

And such an icon was still humble, taking on the responsibility of party host as pleas came forth. Derek was like their cork message board, pinning requests in him with compliments. Derek, we're low on ice, where's Laura's truck? Thank you, Derek! Derek, how did the book tour go? Derek, did I see you on channel 5 last week or was that some other handsome wolf? Thanks, D! Derek, when was the last time you were even on a date? Derek, can you open this for me? Derek, did you see that? Derek?

"Stiles?" Derek broke, gently tugging the empty bottle from Stiles' fiddling hands. It was his...definitely-a-number beer and the label had been so nervously removed he had glue under his cuticles. "Why don't I walk you to your camp?" Derek offers, looping his fingers neatly over Stiles' wrist, just under the cuff of his flannel.

"Hmm? Yeah, that's good. That's sounds good," Stiles slurs, all of the nerves in his throat going warm like someone had their hands there, palming at his jaw line. It made for a nice feeling, floating along with Derek leading him out of the tent. He watches as Derek departs with good night gestures towards other wolves and pack mates, all straggling along with a harsh buzz that would wear off before their heads hit the pillow. Werewolves were perhaps lucky they couldn’t depend on the misfortune of alcohol for too long before their supernatural livers cleansed out their bad decisions.

Hell Night was entirely peaceful in the calm weakening toward the morning, dense chills rolling through, hanging on shirt sleeves. Derek had let go of Stiles' wrist but the warm little imprint still lingers. He steadies as best he can but the same rocks he tripped over earlier were proving just as difficult and its so expected that he tumbles into Derek like a tipsy college freshman. His erratic movements, sparsely aimed and flailing, meet the fast grip of Derek's hands, wide flat palms that grab his shoulders.

That toothy grin surfaces in Derek's face again, so clear even in the unsure light of far off midnight rv parties. "You really can't hold your own, can you?" He joked, his soft breathy chuckle was like the clatter of a wind chime.

"Not, not all of us have magical werewolf sobering skills," Stiles replies at a low mutter, meeting where he thinks Derek's eyes are.

Stiles' had listened to Derek talk so much all night, candidly with persons who had his trust like a physical moniker. It was nice. It had been nice to hear him talk like that, so kindly and openly. He just wants to hear Derek talk more, despite what seemed like such deep rooted stoicism and an identity built on forbearance.

"Sooo you're a writer?" Stiles asks, he sinks in to where Derek's letting him lean, like a natural gesture that would have happened anyway. He hung himself at an angle where their hands bobbed against one another.

"Biographies, mainly. There's not a lot text on pre-colonial wolves so I'm just digging up what I can."

"Heh, digging"

"What?"

"Digging and you...wolf...oh um. Unintentional pun..." Stiles just mutters and shifts his head down.

"Tent."

"Huh?

"We were just in one. Unin -tent- tional." He's smiling, Stiles knows it, can hear it in his voice,.

"You sound like someone who gets paid to make puns... you're good at it." Stiles is suddenly really wishing he was near a bed, overwhelmed by really wonderful feelings of exhaustion.

"Which camper are you in?" Derek ask, to the point he is essentially dragging Stiles along.

"Good Up Jo', she's all the way at the end."

"Good..Up? Jo'?" Derek mutters in confusion.

"Mhmm, she's good going up hills but not going down hills." Stiles explains, waving a lazy hand. "Made sense to call her that instead of Good Ol' Jo since a Good Ol' could definitely at least fall down a hill instead of... sputter to a stop."

"Seems fitting," Derek muses.

"Scotty did even want to deal with her when Allison brought her home, use to be her aunt's. And then Allison went on this whole..thing about American automobiles and somehow, Scott agreed to make a 'dee-lap-ih-dated' Chevy van from 1993 our tour van."

"Where are touring you?"

"All the fun spots on the West Coast. Started in SoCal and played this great set at the bar we debuted, right outside home. I think we're going to Portland next." Stiles trailed off, unaware and rubbing the sleep back into his eyes. "What about you, big guy?"

Derek thought for a moment, looking like he really needed the right words. "Probably back to teaching; I don't like road life." He said it with indeterminate decision, like it was the easy answer he could later erase.

"Where do you teach?"

"University of Berkeley. I teach one core and two elective classes for journalism and history majors."

"Knew you had to have the whole dignified scholar look for a reason," Stiles chided, pressing his hand to Derek's stomach in jest.

Derek tried as best he could too keep Stiles upright with the constant pull of him slipping to the ground he suddenly couldn't hold on. Stiles fell in a slow lethargic tumble, skidding on Derek's thigh and comically falling on top the weathered dirt road.

"God, I'm sorry no, I'm too tired. I have to lie down. Leave me here," Stiles dropped down, a few feet away from the loneliest oak sapling he'd ever seen that looked strangely cozy. He got nice and comfortable in the gravel, realizing that tomorrow he'll have to get rocks out of his pockets and pants.

He heard Derek sigh, probably unsure of what to do with the most uncharming drunken slop of an idiot with a barely post-teen maturity. But it's not something that Drunk Stiles can really control, knowing full well that he could make up for all this if Derek just spends a little bit of time with Sober Stiles. That is under the hope that Derek will want to, that is. Or if they'll even find each other tomorrow.

And in the unearned dedication that Stiles has been endowed with that evening, he felt himself being awkwardly pulled upward. His legs parted and his arms linked together over an overheated torso, the right position for a piggy back ride. What kind of handsome idiot gives another drunken idiot a piggy back ride in the middle of the night on a dirt road in nowhere's-ville NorCal?

They move, to Stiles knowledge since bouncing noted movement, and Stiles could hear the very steady rhythm of Derek's pulse with his head nestled up so close to his neck. He could smell his fabric softener, so starch and sweet, and the knit of his sweater was kind on his cheek. He opened and closed his palm on the cable knit of Derek's pullover, the groves lining up perfectly on his chest.

"You smell nice," Stiles muttered, very quietly into Derek's collar, so soft he didn't know if he even said it. Derek didn't reply, trudging along with such fortitude he could be hiking through actual fog.

Stiles wasn't sure how he got to the dinky front seat of Good Up Jo' with the seat launched as far as it could possibly recline forward but, there he was. With a massive migraine and cotton mouth like he slept in the Mojave desert.

Hell night had ended and he had missed the damn bird landing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I really got only halfway through the song so its entirely unfinished. Maybe continue later? Probs not? Ehhh?~~  
>  Totally finishing this because of FreakHour's really really nice comment, oh my god.
> 
> Things that would have ended up if it was longer  
>  ~~-Laura is a funkatronic dj and composer named Gorgeous Ordinance~~  
>  ~~-Derek write biographies about prominent werewolves in Pre and Post Colonized North and Central America. He teaches a journalism class, a class on Werewolf culture, and shapeshifters in Algonquin mythos/legends.~~  
>  ~~-Boyd and Erica in the background get together, engaged, and then married over the course of the weekend.~~  
>  ~~-Loose allusions to The Paving Company essentially sounding like the band Hey Ocean!~~


	2. Road Too Long To Mention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicate to FreakHour for saying really nice things about the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valarie June is a real and spectacular musician so I highly recommend listening to her while reading this chapter (because that's what I did). 
> 
> Jan 21 2016; Made a couple hamfisted edits! All the continuity errors and typo I was ignoring are gone.

Good up Jo could reach 70mph if Allison really revved up the engine and gave at least a two minute warning break when they hit a curve. Jo was predictable like that. Even if the clutch stuck and the second passenger door didn't open from the inside and all windows couldn't roll up. Jo needed to get coaxed in to do anything and she'd eventually get there if she got warmed up to it first.

In all luck and expectation, the last stretch to Hell Sparrow Island was easy. Slow, crowded with minivans and campers and fuel efficient RVs, and smelling vaguely of spoiled petrol and bubble solution (as evidence of the several miles of pristine bubbles trailing the dirt road).

Roadies were following alongside in droves of vibrant costumes and bright embroidered nylon banners. Their own happy version of a parade, groggy and still drunk on last night's tequila. They sang brazen versions of Katy Perry, overtures from musicals, and death marches from Louisiana.

The Paving Company didn't see much, of course, stuck behind the cab of a 4x4 and blocking a humbly monstrous weekend moving van. At least no one was honking, or if they were it was a drowned out expression against the singing of crop top angelic valley girls and the explosions of daytime fireworks.

Despite this distraction of events to remain in awe of, Allison pestered Stiles about why a bear of a wolf knocked on her driver side window last night.

Consistently, he evaded, stalling with questions that obviously had no real significance.

"Did you confirm if we need Lydia's drum kit on stage or if there's one provided? Because we have to sign insurance papers if they don't need hers," Stiles asked. Most of his attention was just on the passersby, lucky his window was up and their shouting was muffled. The intensity of his hangover wasn't as overwhelming as when he was in high school or college but a migraine was still a migraine.

"How can I confirm with someone who doesn't have a phone or email?" Allison barked, the slightest amusement in her voice, like a drop of hot sauce. "Who was the wolf, Stiles?"

"We should probably park near a med booth in case Kira gets food poisoning again. We're gonna be eating a lot of fair food when the cereal bars run out." Stiles threw his remark to where Kira and Scott were playing gin rummy in the back, some hour and a half into four consecutive games lazily played without crowing a winner.

"I'm just sensitive to reused oil," Kira replies, throwing the six of diamonds down to the discard line. "Its not like I'm gonna vomit again."

"So pace yourself on the French fries this time," Scott adds.

"Hey, Stiles, who was that wolf again?" Allison poses it like a new question, locking judgmental eyes and a head tilt when the truck in front sets its parking breaks on.

"Valerie June is gonna do a set right when we're on stage on today. It's not too unprofessional to catch the end of it when you guys are doing Big Bicyclette?" Stiles watches a set of three bikers a half mile off the road, avoiding the parade and obviously in a hurry, kicking up dust like dare devils.

"No, as long as you pick up her album for me. Who was the wolf you met last night, Stiles?" Allison replies.

It's been the same question since they woke up, at the crack of dawn, with Stiles clung to the curve of the passenger seat in the cradle of his own arms. He'd been put there after a mastodon of a wolf, gleaming blue eyes that cut through the night like lazer pointers, knocked so softly on Good Up Jo's driver side window where Allison's face was pressed in a drool state of euphoria. She had made the mistake of offering to man the front while Lydia, Kira, and Scott welded their arms together in a warm cuddling puddle. It was the trade off that she and Scott could have the van all to themselves for the whole night on Sunday.

Allison, not being that big of a screamer, felt half her life pass through a single surprised gasp escaping the gaps of her teeth when the wolf locked eyes on her, pointing to the sleeping Stiles on his back. He had seemed nice enough, with Stiles so mindfully balanced on his shoulder blades, asking in a quiet whisper in case he might wake anyone else, "Does this belong to you?"

Trying to get Stiles back in the van was as much of a challenge as it was to get him in it back during the first trials of touring (he forsook all GMC and Chevrolet cabs, for some god damned reason only he cared about). But she couldn't knock the considerate takings of a werewolf, who held Stiles' head when his neck went limp and handled him so tenderly he didn't stir once. Stiles slept like an idiotically serene ewe in the loving care of its shepherd.

The silence in the van, occasionally upset by the jostling outside banter or the slick movement of cards against cards or the radiant hum of Lydia on a tin harmonica testing out melodies, was damning and broken by the repeated question, "Stiles. Who was the wolf you met?"

"Just some beta, I don't know." Stiles answered, picking the undersides of his finger nails.

"Did he smell Scott on you?"

"Yeah. Said he didn't care. Thought I was a werewolf-"

"Why doesn't he care?"

"I don't know, Allison," Stiles sighs, frustrated beyond what he can comprehend.

"Does he have a name?"

"Allison-" Stiles jives.

"Did he say if he was from, like a pack or something?"

"Allison, you're doing it again" Scott chides in.

"Did he, I don't know, mention how many wolves are in his pack so we can-"

"ALLISON, JUST DRIVE."

-

Hell Sparrow island was a singular lump of thick feral short redwoods, birch wood trees, oaks, and ferns entirely surrounded by sinking sand on all sides. The kind of slow, deep endless quick sand that made appearances in children's book to evoke fear in adventuring in the tropics. But rather than capture unsuspecting travelers in their curious fallacies, it mainly just made the impossible trek for conservationists and damned the occasional possum or raccoon. The thick slosh of mud ate up anything that treaded in with an infinite collection of galoshes and work boots, possibly a wagon and rusted 1978 town car, stranded at the bottom. The island was a mystery, too far out to assess of agricultural reasons even if it was California property. It was no man's land.

Except for one weekend out of the year, when the soft road hardened and the watery edges receded, and the Hell Sparrow perched itself on a single dead tree branch despite a mighty selection of limbs surrounding it on a huge birch tree. The Hell Sparrow was a fat bird, much fatter than a kookaburra or unhappy owl, whose internal clock couldn't be attested for much other than the musical festival it was named after. The speculation that the fest would continue if the bird did not was under much scrutiny and the bird wouldn't stay still long enough to be identified. In 1943, a group of photographers attempted to capture a closer look at the Hell Sparrow, literally wanting to restrain it for documentation and the result was not the early closing of the festival but rather the immediate withdrawal of the bird and a 45 minute window to evacuate the island (with a mob of bodies heading for the shore In every direction.).

The Hell Sparrow, through photographs and speculation, was most likely an egret or variant of phoenix, brown body and huge frame streaked with bright shiny reds and speckling whites. It was at home in the red woods, nestled in an accommodated bird house and tribute shrine. The Hell Sparrow couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything except recede the island's sinking mud once a year but it was provided with enough incentive to at least do that for several more generations.

No one even knew how it did the whole tide shifting thing. But aside from badly rendered logo tshirts no one even saw it off the perch. Most new roadies and musicians and hipster vamps didn't even know the history of the bird. Like the perfectly round ears of Mickey Mouse or the cheeks of Garfield, the Hell Sparrow was left to just exist as a timeless image, unperturbed by curious persons.

The Paving Company laid down the final stretch of miles like connecting palms, unphased by what intoxicated roadies did with their idle time and party city supplies. The only sight worth seeing were the seldom appearing covens making light tricks in the early sunrise and the wandering spirits that accompanied traveling packs. Colors would rain down like misused fireworks in bright chalky bursts above the line of cars.

Stiles had always wanted to see Yokai up close and Kira was excitedly giving him a crash course on the differences between the variations and obvious faux-styled Noh Actors marching along in the late morning heat, their makeup running down their chins with sweat. They huddled in the back of the van, draped over the coolers and luggage for some odd form of comfort, watching from the lightly tinted windows.

"That one right there, the red and horned one, yeah, that's supposed to be an Oni. They're super mean and run around with spiked clubs; basically old school goblins. I think they're supposed to be an Oni. That one looks like its made of plastic…" Kira trails off, critically eyeing a white girl in a minimalist costume and bright green Halloween wig.

"What about that guy, he looks pretty real." Stiles points to someone dressed like the universal sign for "Don’t Fuck With Me".

"Oh that one I know! That's Hannya! She's one of my favorites. In Noh she appears like half way through as Hannya, the demon form of a betrayed woman. If you look at the mask one way she's scary but if you see her from another angle, she looks like she's crying or hurt.

"In the Tales of Genji, Lady Rokujo finds out that Aoi is pregnant and she get SO angry sh...." Kira continues talking, completely ignored while Stiles catches the way the Hannya costume moves. The elegant long upturned horns on a stark white painted wooden mask, inseams of an open mouth colored red. Walking around, taller than the crowd by half a foot, the distressed flowing locks of a black wig caught in the rough weave of a rayon stage kimono.

The discourse of clattering taiko drums and flutes, played by experienced instructors and amicably excited children, melded in with the rising sound of Yakama Indian teenagers in bright beadwork dance outfits, circling around each other in giddy attempts with guitars to sing "Home On The Range" in several different keys. Each slow moment of traffic passed a changing world outside.

"…nd the coolest thing is that Aoi doesn't even show up on stage;she's just an empty kimono. And it ends with when this priestess expels Rokujo from her body in a Kagura dance," Kira ecstatically flings her hands to emphasize.

"Right right, that is really cool…" Stiles, bemused, pulls at his loose thread and stares out at the bouncing bright coloured beads and fringe on the dancers. The awkward jostling of the uneven suspension of the van and the rough and tumble dance performances went quite well with Lydia's wandering fingers on her keyboard, mashing out the themes to 80's sitcoms (playing the tune of Three's Company a tad too many times).

Kira lowers her voice and leans in, "Still thinking about the guy you met?"

"No," he moans, disgruntled but flashing a smile like it thrills him to admit it. "Yeah, actually."

"What was he like?" Kira pulled her knees to her chest, leaning on the side of a red cooler.

"He was the guy from the grocery store," Stiles explained, a slight amusement in his voice. "Didn't recognize me but invited me in because I may have been uh, looming in on his tent."

"You loomed and got invited in? You're not the type who looms and gets away with it."

"His pack or whatever was having some annual fight club and he thought I would want to make nice with the other werewolves. Real gentleman like, I guess."

"Did you make nice with the other wolves?"

"His sisters liked me. I think. There are three; I met two."

"Good sign." Kira nodded and added, "Are they hot?"

"One definitely looks like she could get along with foxes," Stiles laughs.

"Introduce me and I'll give them a reason to visit SoCal for you." Kira smiles, the yellow curves of her irises flaring like whenever she blushes.

"If I can find them. I can't even remember if there was a car near them; I just remember their shitty tent and that it reeked like a Civil War reenactment when they used moonshine as an antiseptic."

"Uh-huh, y'know it amazes me that you get the most drunk out of all of us," Kira squints at him, partially unwilling to believe the amount she knows about Stiles' liquor limits.

"Why does that amaze you? It takes the normal amount for me to get drunk."

"Normal for you, not normal for any other human."

"That's not fair, Allison threw up all over that DJ in San Diego after she downed like, what, four beers?"

"YOU collapsed after three shots," Allison interjected from the driver's seat, her hand dangerously close to the horn. "While you were unconscious and getting carried around on Scott like a backpack, I finished an entire bottle of Jaeger. Which was unfortunate."

"How did we even get on the topic of my drinking and how long have you been listening?" Stiles demanded, guffawing at the insinuation that he was piggyback riding in his recent memory. Although he wouldn't put it past himself…

Allison didn't answer but it was obvious she was grinning madly, relaxing away from the car horn.

"Ok ok ok," Kira took a deep breath, emptying her head of all other questions. "What's his name?"

Stiles glared at her, playfully but still half wondering how he was a lesser-than drinker. "Derek," He huffed out.

"What's his pack's name?" Scott asked from the front, not even turning his head.

"Annnnd no more questions," Stiles thwacked his forehead on the window, hearing Kira giggle. She punched him in the arm and they both went back to watching outside, the slow descent to the island taking up what felt like the entire morning.

\--

"I'm sorry I yelled at you this morning," Stiles put emphasis on 'sorry' like it was a rare occurring word and action. He took the boxes handed to him best he could from the back of the van. Most of the luggage would remain locked in the belly of Good Up Jo', trusting that her locks still worked even when the handles wouldn't.

"You're really not,"' Allison replied blankly, throwing rows of cables on the back of her neck like scarves.

"Yeah but I probably should be, Ally."

"People might get the wrong impression about us," Allison started to make off with the box of sound equipment on the dolly. "Like I don't have your balls in my back pocket."

"Aha, funny. Where are we setting up?"

"Stage 4, we're on in two hours so we can hook up at the bottom of 11." She threw over her shoulder, waving to the backstage entrance.

The rest of the Paving Company had departed as soon as the parking break was set, ready to marvel at the long lines of patrons who were marveling at the empty that hadn't been set up. An opening ceremony had already started, MC'd by a radio star from Detroit (who openly did so as a Rakshasi of the morning show, Demontroit), and supposed appearance by the Hell Sparrow (which was possibly some idiot in a mascot costume).

Out of the thousands of people flooding the island, making a mad dash for fried food and pretentious hot dogs, littering every possible naturally occurring spot with their modern sass and interest in music they'd traveled to see, Stiles was the only one who wanted to see was a surge protector. Just a bunch of tabs to put into slots, make electricity flow from one point to the next, noise noise noise, clap clap clap, and then off.

Stiles has no capability of enjoying something else until he's done with it what he started. The trip was a burden until the intention was done, until the last note of I Have A List (changed by Allison from Big Bicylette) by the Paving Company was played and their set was complete. When all was unplugged, then he could have his fun. And if Allison was fine with him darting off to see the siren Valerie June and the funkadelic Gorgeous Ordinance, then all the less time until he was finito.

The island was surprisingly habitable, a few permanent buildings in the center-most portion contained bathrooms, shelters, a makeshift office, and managed power source (aether rods were a god send among secretive super naturals who needed a constant supply of electricity). Every bit of set was stretched out in a web, semi-accurate to the complimentary stage and camper maps given at the info booths. If the island was vacant for every day out of the year save for the tide-receding weekend it was not painfully obvious.

The back stage area was mostly together, a mishmash tunnel with ominous high black panels on either side and twisting braided cables like tree roots intersecting on the ground. The entrances to stages 1-5 were all identical and the far off reaches of the long hall suggested a VIP tent or green room where the distinct smell of vodka and lemonade wafted through like air freshener.

Stiles just headed for Stage 4, large white tin signs in black lettering leading the way. A band list posted on the outside of the tent had notes written all over it, justifying placements for each band and indicated time slots. Stiles picked out Allison's hand writing in blue ink requesting that the previous band's drum kit, the alternative country duo Heather and Hollyhock, be removed from the stage for their performance. She had also tacked on a sticky note with a stapler on their set list with approximate times. They were going to start with one of their better ones, Nine Lives In A Can featuring a short keytar solo by Kira. It was a popular song, mainly because Scott really liked dancing on stage to it and girls really like watching Scott dance.

The rest of the band list was projected with 10, mostly unfamiliar, musical acts and apparently ending with a lecture or performance by an Algonquin werewolf pack. Stiles didn't really know what that would entail but the third band seemed all the more weird given that he was unaware that Folktronica was a genre.

On stage 4, the puttering techs and coordinators going through check lists was a comforting hum. A few priestesses and witches on painters ladders were tieing ribbons soaked in rose water to the light panels on either side, setting up the last components of sound proofing thin air. (As large as an island could be, stages couldn't be spread apart without drowning in the unyielding mote. Thank god for aether rods and magical women who could prevent the melding tensions of music like foamed padded walls.)

Allison was tucked in at the back of the stage, her cables in labeled milk crates and color marked with her initials on each end. No one was paying her much attention except for an excellent example of evolution gone right in the form of a busty dirty blonde woman pursing her blood red lips like she was deep in thought. Stiles noticed this because Stiles had an almost perverse admiration for really gorgeous woman who could definitely beat him to a bloody pulp.

She was leaning on the opposite railing, smacking her golden ration curved jaw on cartoon pink bubble gum. Her Victoria's Secret push up bra put a twang in her posture that set her apart from the rest of her crew, an obvious pack of wolves and humans mingling together in harmonies. She didn't look like a singer. Probably the reason why she was silent in the practice, save from the wild sounds of chewing. Her focus didn't break and she kept staring like her eyes wanted to burn holes in Allison's jacket.

She picked up a bass guitar case, with such ease it could have been empty, that was covered in city stickers and then tapped a blonde boy next to her on the shoulder. Her silent nod toward Allison was all it apparently took to get the message as he chuckled and tilted his head like he was approving. Then she went for it, striding along like a smoky eyed Sandy West. Squatting down to Allison's level she threw out some kind of pick up line and eventually shook hands. She was really getting the kind of smiles that Allison saved for Scott when he told vaguely inappropriate jokes or didn't understand something. Unamused and embarrassed.

It was a beautiful slow descending train wreck, albeit probably one of the kindest rejections Allison would ever give. Probably. Stiles couldn't hear a word of it over the Beach Boy's-esque harmonizing to his left and the ear piercing feed back from the sound check crew.

They don't even really talk, it seemed. Just the light conversation and head tilt in semi-interested flirting. But there has to be some amount of buzzwords that this Runaways look-alike is dropping that keeps Allison laughing and intrigued and oh god, there's absolute arm touching and nodding. The radiating noise around them, harmonizing falsettos, rustling clangs of ladders, obtuse feedback, and now the hardening clatter of a very annoying goose laugh by one of the priestesses, made the surreal connection of Allison mutually flirting like splitting atoms in a kitchen. It looked messy, it looked wonderful, it looked like a bad idea.

But, like the end of a song, the mystery rock star stood up straight with a hitch in her posture and made off with her bass, flashing a sweet wave as she left. She didn't seem too crestfallen, going to punch the aforementioned blonde friend in the shoulder so playfully that he probably expected she got a phone number.

By this point, Stiles had been staring for a long while, holding a buckling cardboard box in his stiff arms and fighting off a microphone stand that really wanted to jab him in the nose. Eyeing her as she swayed along to stage left, Stiles rushed in a less than limber speed to Allison.

In a clamoring hurry, sinking his slipping finger into the edges of the box, he tumbled and kneed himself on to the milk crate full of cables. "What was that??" He demanded, like some overzealous cartoon character that didn't have any respect for his surroundings.

Bugged eyed and nerve wracked, but all together use to his reactions, Allison said in some amount of composure, "She...wanted to know if I was free tonight and if I knew any wolves. She smelled Scott and Kira on me. Just wanted to invite us to some after hours party on the east side by the woods."

"Oh," Stiles puffed, relaxing the box he held down on top of the milk crate. "She just looked like she was hitting on you."

"She was, but I told her I was with Scott. She wasn't even really asking; just wanted to set me up with a cousin or something," Allison said, tying chords together.

"okay, that makes sense, it looked like-"

"Oh my god, get a grip and go plug in equipment over there," Allison snapped and chunked a cable at his chest. Stiles winced when the end hit his knuckle and shied away, miming agony in his whole arm.

The vocalists were chatting among themselves. The buxom hit girl eyed Stiles, looking him up and down with some level of approval in a stretched smirk on her red lips. She'd linked arms with a beautiful black man whose chiseled features made him statuesque and pensive.  
The girl blew Stiles a kiss when she caught his stares and her man flashed his teeth with a bite.

\-----

Meeting Cora again wouldn't have seemed like any kind of adventure if Stiles had actually changed out of the clothes he wore the night before. Dusting off all sides of his pants and shoes and then having Lydia spray him with some of her apple wood body mist to mask the smell of Guinness seemed like it should have made him presentable. But given Stiles love affair with small personal embarrassments, he just ended up as some hick boy who had rocks in the cuffs of his jeans and smelled like sour cherry moonshine.

They ran in to each other when Cora had an apparent hankering for 27 corn dogs and burgers, stacking the plastic boxes and complimentary plates on top of one another in a single trip. She waved to get Stiles' attention when she caught sight of him.

"Hey! Stiles, right?" Cora asked, feigning confusion like she wouldn't remember a name like his.

"Yeah! Cora? I'm sorry, if I ever rhyme your name with your sister's by accident." Stiles joked.

"Don't even, we got use to it by high school." She evaded, slipping a hand to the under side of the plate and nearly dropping a handful of complimentary fries. Stiles caught the box, losing one or two in the fall.

"Careful there, you want help carrying?" Stiles offered.

"God yes, my sisters were too caught up in practice and it's a job just to make them eat," Cora handed off a plastic container with three smooshed burgers with tossed about cutlery and ketchup packets. A few napkins fell to the ground among other abandoned ones and promotional hand outs. They'd be lost in quicksand some days later anyway.

"Is Laura playing today? I never even asked if she was in a band or anything."

"Laura and Erica both. Erica is the bassist for Rest of the Gang, they use to be a Cranberries tribute band but now they just sound like them. Three other pack mates are in it too, plus this new guy Erica's crazy about. And Laura in a electronica DJ. Sorry, 'Funkatronic' DJ," Cora tried her best to do air quotes with full arms.

"Wait, does she go by a DJ name?" Stiles asks, interests peaked.

"Yeah, Gorgeous Ordinance. Only thing I like about her music. Don't tell her that though."

"Seriously? Your sister is GorgOrd? I've followed her stuff since I was in high school! She's the only surviving musician from the early 2000s when Little Daddy and Pop Rhythm were still dropping tracks and touring the coast." Stiles flails, over excited and tripping over words.

"Jesus, you're worse than Derek," Cora said through a genuine grin." :You gotta geek out to her, she's on the last leg of her career before she wants to retire from the whole music thing. She doesn't think she has real fans anymore so lay on the compliments if you can. You'd be doing the pack a favor."

"What do you mean? I thought she was the alpha or whatever."

"She is but she's the only reason the rest of us can make it to these shows and get out touring. Don't breathe a word of this, but the other bands in our pack don't even come close to decent. But Laura doing her thing gets them in to clubs and shows. They're all god awful but they love doing it. If Laura's not pulling strings then they'll all realize how bad they are and I'm not ready for that emotional landslide."

"She's really thinking of quitting?"

"Retiring. She'll smack you if you call her a quitter. She's been doing this for almost a decade and a half, thinks it's time to actually use her teaching degree. Nobody wants her gone. Personally, I think chalk it up to her pissing contest with Derek."

"Why would they be competing?"

"Derek teaches, he's gotten published, he gets invited to appear in documentaries as an expert. You know, all the competitive whatever crap in academia."

"I didn't even go to college," Stiles huffed

"I didn't either but its not like boxers need a GED."

"You said 'bands' like there're multiple. How many do you guys put up with?"

"Put up with? That's a great way of saying it."

"You said, 'not even close to decent'."

"Still," Cora bit her lip. "...My brothers are part of an acoustic guitar trio. They do versions of piano concertos, sorta pretentious but Leo got in to Julliard so whatever. No one plays what I'm about so I'm passive about it."

"What do rock out to then?"

"Don't laugh, but angry girlfriend music."

"Angry like Cher Lloyd or angry like Kelly Qualms?

"Definitely Kelly Qualms. You listen to her?"

"Our drummer Kira puts her and Betsy Devil on when we can't stay awake in the van. I know like all the lyrics to Every Kind Of Suck."

"God, I love Betsy Devil! They were all I listened to in High School. Have you heard Kimya Kimya? They have a similar sound and dropped their first album a couple months ago."

"I have, but only the one EP from last spring. I want that album though, I keep forgetting to download it."

"Pass me your email before you take off and I'll send it to you."

"Really? Well thanks. But for free food and music you gotta tell me how to repay you."

"Nerd out to my sister and I'll cash a favor sometime."

  
\----

There are plenty of things that the Stilinski family excelled in. Accepting hospitality was at the top of the list.

Since his first Christmas, Stiles had been stuffed with brussel sprouts that stunk up his breath, roasted potatoes that were so salty they dehydrated him, and green bean casserole that gave him the trots. He was good at accepting food he hated, he could smile when he was gifted with insulting gag gifts, and he wouldn't forsake a free drink even from the ugliest boy infested with acne at a bar. He could take it all in stride and laugh at the gestures later.

But when he was welcomed, bringing the food he was offered to eat, there wasn't anything that could stop him from chowing down.

Even the thrill of nerve wracking experience of meeting one of his favorite DJs for the second time.

Gorgeous Ordinance was a stellar woman from Northern California who made the Funkatronica and Discotronic movement alive again in the early 2000's. Granted, it was a small movement, composed of effortlessly talented icons like Little Daddy and lesser talented icons like The Freebees. But the emphasis was on time-tested rhythms and reintroducing classics to people who barely remember or didn't experience the thrill of hearing "Give Me A Reason" on the radio.

But GorgOrd withstood the test of time and outgrew the cliché club atmosphere for a more sophisticated approach to medleys of her own and remixed classics. She has a style that other remix artists bought in to, tapping through to her talents like a deep well.

And when other artists used their egos to condemn the movement as soon as it got boring, GorgOrd took the literal voices of her fans and immortalized them in her performances.

When Stiles was 16, dumb enough to sneak out and smart enough to back track an odometer, he caught the last stop of GorgOrd's 5 city tour to LA and screamed his lungs out to the live performance of "Keep Your Shell Vs. Magic Man".

And he'd swear he could pinpoint his own voice on the tour album when it came out a year later.

And hearing that someone so essential to the concourse of evolving music might retire? No way in hell he would stand and let it happen.

Stiles Stilinski was about to meet Gorgeous Ordinance.

And it would absolutely help him to remember exactly what she looked like. Given his tipsiness the evening prior, a lot of things were generally fuzzier than they should have been. And he deserved some credit that no one's really ever see GorgOrd, given that she performs every show in a mask the size and girth of a moto-cross helmet.

But all the same, he at least remembered some general faces in the huge selection of wolves squashed in between the open doors of pickup trucks and sat atop half a dozen coolers like they were bean bag chairs. They could make a festival just of themselves, cackling to long winded inside jokes and harmonizing to the melody of songs strum on guitars and tapped out with drum sticks.

It was a family affair, full of well aged and young gun dogs all abashed, tipsy off of beer paired with sandwiches and rounds taken from stainless steel flasks. It was too early in the day for a bonfire and midday hunger pains were stifled with snacks and bologna on white bread.

The burgers and corn dogs Cora had gathered for picky band mates who demanded a real meal before taking to the stage. And only half of those band mates were getting what they wanted since the vendors were fresh out of funnel cake and deep fried pickles and bacon bit smoothies (at least none of them got cocky enough to demand raw steaks and pig livers)

She lead Stiles to the nest of wolves, all near or a little past his own age, who were draped on each other like scarves and nuzzled necks affectionately. Stiles was mostly hiding behind the plastic to-go boxes, more nervous about being in a wolf den than he had been given that he was also in the den of the subject of his light adoration. Laura was easy to distinguish, the center of civilization with a back country kind of opulence in raw hide boots and the most simple black wife beater.

And then there was also…Derek. Sweet Potato Derek, cradled at his sister's feet while he clutched a novelty truck stop travel mug and she played with his hair. That reminder popped into his head. Laura was Derek's sister. Of course Derek was Laura's brother but it rolled off the tongue as a sweeter phrase to say that Derek was the subject and things could belong with him, Derek's Derek's Derek's. And, ok yeah, Laura being the matriarch had more significance of things belonging with her. But 'Laura's' didn't have the same starch or poignancy as 'Derek's'.

It was a train of idiotic thoughts, muddling the types of affection Stiles was traveling on because he was about to actually formally get introduced to Gorgeous Ordinance. This was one of many dreams come true as a music tech-asset/full-time groupie/probably Band Aid given the right lip gloss and lighting. He was strictly on the path to meeting an icon that defined his life's goal and path.

But this was the first time he'd really looked at Derek in the light of day, not counting one encounter in a Safeway under less-than-flattering fluorescent lights. He saw how nice the sunlight complimented his completion, how sweetly the curve of his chin met under those beautiful stark black beard hairs, and how he had this tiny gold chain necklace glittering under a white speckled sweater.

And Derek in a sweater was a kind sight to witness, the curvatures of his shoulders strong in his laid back stance on the ground. He smiled between anecdotes he's probably heard a dozen times by his pack mates, too comfortable to make them any different. He looked almost shy, fidgeting absent minded at the fraying plastic seam of the travel mug. He didn't sip at, maybe empty or not even his to drink, and ran his finger up and down the dramatic handle. His stoic resting face was aware, knit brow in a constant look of stressful aggression. But his absent minded smile was silken and perfect.

And yeah, Laura was there too, okay, in what looked like a jacket two sizes big on her but draping like the gilded robe of a queen. She pulled at Derek's ear every so often, sticking her finger in which he twitched at but seemed altogether use to. They were brother and sister after all, full to the brim of idiosyncrasies and habits that couldn't be shrugged off, the kind of annoying tendencies only found in good siblings. Close siblings who talked about feelings, punched another, and weren't above threatening potential each other's possible new boyfriends.

Even if Cora said they carried a rivalry between them it seemed small in the space they took up, unimportant at a glance.

And this adoration Stiles had, it was just two varieties of affection. Laura was his adolescent hero, one of many, strung together by actual memories and quotations he was never able to put a face to until now. She was a stitch in the quilt of his new career as a music junkie that followed the stray wires of the Paving Co.

Then there was Derek who just looked so damn sweet in that sweater.

"I've got the five burgers, six corn dogs, and eleven ketchup packets for Laura, Isaac, Kimber, and Mr. Big Handsome New Guy." Cora said playfully, doling out containers and paper plates. She took parts from Stiles of what he was mostly hiding behind.

"Boyd is fine, Cora," one said from the ground propped against, the gorgeous boy who mimed biting Stiles earlier with the blonde bombshell at side. Said blonde was not in sight but perhaps sorely missed. Boyd dusted off the back of his legs when he stood up and grabbed a container of two burgers from the top of Stiles' stack. He tucked some cutlery in his pocket and headed off, coyly winking at Stiles so that no one saw.

"How bad did he say he has it for Erica?" Cora asked when he congregated into another group, watching him while he walked away.

"They were talking about their apartments and how far a drive it was for them," Laura said, hitching a leg up under hers and leaning forward.

"I'm kind of glad Brian got food poisoning. Good job inviting him, Isaac. Maybe it'll be a repeat of last time," Cora joked to a curly haired boy Stiles recognized from earlier. She tossed her last containers on top of an empty cooler, going back and taking the ones Stiles was hiding behind.

Like a classroom full of children, excited about a returning student who had been overcome with chicken pox and absent for a week, the lot of wolves chided, "Stiles!" in a mad camp form of greeting.

Stiles smiled, bashful and sweetened, zoning in on the last hushed call of his name. It was surprising how delightful and shy a burly wolf with so much facial hair could really be.

"Hey everybody," he replied to no one in particular, a light attempt at a wave and one hand in his pocket. He did a slight nod in Derek's direction.

"Found him on the way and he helped me carry all your crap. They give a free entree if you buy enough for a party of sixteen so he's gonna eat with us." Cora said, pushing Stiles in to the group, harder than she intended but not surprised when he stumbled to the spot of grass where Boyd had been.

He made all efforts possible to keep to himself, unsure of how comfortable he could get with predators who he knew so briefly. But wolves were still pack animals who loved to touch and mark. As evidence by Laura who immediately pulled him back and slapped his shoulders.

"We were wondering when you'd show up again," She said, ruffling his hair affectionately.

Cora passed out containers, mean looking sesame seed bun drippings with the most delectable smelling grease and spices imaginable. And when they dug in, musicians more interested in talking than anything, they hushed for one moment of chewing and the clatter of plastic breaking.

"What happened last year?" Stiles asked in the lull. A quick chortle went through the group, knowing some old story that was probably retold a hundred times by now.

Laura perked up, with almost rehearsed words, "We've been doing Hell Sparrow for a pretty long time and this is still the best thing that's ever happened. So about two years back, Jackson, our brother, kind of a tool, never been to the fest before and wanted to see what he was missing out on. He came and met this guy that I's, that's Issac, use to go to school with. They hit it off on Hell Night, got riled up and disappeared. Jackson comes back alone about four hours later and absolutely reeks of Danny, that's the guy's name. Next day, Jackson is off by himself, refuses to be around us because we all just know. He comes around later, says that he and Danny are gonna ride back to the Berkeley instead of hitching a ride of with Derek. If he hadn't been a friend of I's, would have been the stop to it there, just a recipe for disaster. But I's vouched for him, said he was a good guy. Then, clear out of the blue after Wood Run, Jackson says that he's head over heels for the guy, wants to tell him he loves him. Which is just crazy, they've know each other for like a day. Crazier, Danny says it first! Blurts it out at Wood Run and Jackson spews BudLite all over him.

"That's when it hits me, it's the damn Sparrow. Jackson was kind of a player, didn't really seem weird he was all over somebody but he's not the kinda guy who gets that way at all, let alone a day later," Laura opened a can of beer, something light with a shiny label.

"So did they end up working out?" Stiles asked in between chews.

"They send out Christmas and Halloween cards every year and have a pregnant surrogate named Nancy," Derek piped up.

"Did the Sparrow ever wear off?" Stiles mused, wondering if all the Sparrow talk amounted to anything out in the real world.

"Nobody really knows how it works so we all just assume it amplifies things. They calmed down when they got married a few months later but they're happy. We just let it happen when someone else gets that way." Derek said.

"But that damn bird and this island screws up all our senses. I thought Danny was a wolf when I met him," Laura said, then pointing to Stiles and saying, "Thought you were too."

"Ah, so now you know," Stiles murmured, embarrassed that he hadn't corrected it sooner.

"I mean, you smell like another wolf," Laura said.

"It's just my band mate, he's not in a pack. Unless you count a bunch of kids with amps a pack," Stiles said, feeling like he was rambling.

"You can. What stage are you playing?" She asked.

"Stage 4. I'm just the tech head, we're The Good Intentions Paving Company."

"Oh man, I bought your ep yesterday when I got service!" Laura said, getting nods from others that they remembered bits and pieces from the album. "Yeah yeah, we listened to it on part of the drive up. I saw your name on the roster, you play right after my friend Bess and Heather's band on that stage. You guys are great, those bass lines are awesome."

Stiles felt all the saliva drain from the back of his throat and even if you told him he couldn't, he felt the veins in his forearms shiver. Just this little shiver like the knock of a fist on a door, a reminder that his blood should still try to keep moving.

"No, no, no, I can't get over this." Stiles fumbled on his words, feeling what he could only describe as a rush of panic over something so surreal as this. "You, I've been to like 15 of your shows. Which is impressive when the first 9 were all back when I was 16 and didn't have a car and lived by no major public transit lines. I did a report for my 8th grade history class on how "King of Kentucky" shaped the 2005 DJing world. I paid a guy on Etsy sixty bucks for a replica of your stage mask so I could dress up as you for Halloween. You are like, California royalty and you're only 30. I can't get over that I'm meeting you and, yeah real weirded out by...yeah," Stiles mumbled, scratching at the back of his head like he was looking for an off switch.

Laura sort of stared at him while he ranted, boring holes into his skull with the sweetest smirk like she'd heard everything he's said a dozen times. She patted his head, an affectionate coddling swirl of her lemon yellow nails running over his partially buzzed scalp.  
"Hmm, you're a good one," she hummed. Turning to a pensive girl in ripped jean shorts, she changed the subject, "Malia, when did the stage master say that sound test starts?"

"Uh, I think in like 25 minutes," she replied, whipping out an ancient modeled burner phone.

"Cool, we can eat and run. Eat and gossip later, you dogs," Laura said, waving at her pack mates who listened like her words were law. She spoke sweetly to Stiles, "That includes you, eat up."

\----

"So how'd you find your band?" Laura asked. She and Stiles left first for their walk back to the stage, passing off responsibility to Malia for whatever was needed in the array of equipment set up of part turntable part analog DJ booth.

"Scott was a pretty bored kid and taught himself how to play guitar," Stiles said, digging at the lint in his pockets absent minded. "Then when he started dating Allison they'd do duets and write these really great ballads. Then when we met Kira, whole other story there, we started playing shows in our hometown. Then off to community college where Lydia came into play, Kira and I were both in love with her for like a year. Lydia was the reason we started recording and I had a job doing the technical work instead of being a groupie who can't sing or play."

"Sounds like a good group," Laura grinned. "And I meant what I said, you've got great style."

"What about you? Your sister said you were quitting," He said.

Laura glared at him, side eyed and threatening. "Hale's don't quit, we quit when we're dead. I'm retiring. It's the time to."

"How could it ever be time to retire? You retire when you can't work, not when you don't want to anymore." Stiles said. Laura just continued to give him the same tired disapproval. He added, "it's what my dad says to deputies. He's a sheriff."

"Well, same goes for what my dad says about quitting. I have my pack to think about and it's not good to be muddling around the coast away from them every weekend." She sighed, picking the dirt from under her nails like it mattered.

"But what could you do for them that they can't do for themselves?" He questioned.

"Do you know any wolves aside from your omega?"

"Well, Kira's kind of like a wolf..."

Laura glared again, without malicious eyebrows. "You won't get it if you've never been pack. You watch people grow up and throw them going away parties when they move. But pack stays together. We support one another, we make sure that we're all safe and stable and fed. If we don't, we die off. And the alpha makes sure we don't. I have to be stable so that I can make them all stable. I can't do that when I'm roaming around in a van out of cell range."

"Did you want to be the alpha?" Stiles asked. The wind picked up and he zipped up the front of his coat. Laura still had on the leather coat, too bi on her frame and the cut for a man's jacket. The bottom hem was rough, exposed at edges and stiff at the seams. It looked twice her age while twice the size.

"Always have. I went to public school all my life and all the other girls wanted to be moms or doctors or artists or something. I've always wanted to be the alpha. My mom use to take me aside and tell me rules and stories. I really liked being the responsible one who got to tell stories and lead. And the mystique of it fascinates me. My mom could sense everything. She predicted every birth my aunts had and every school trip that I'd need a coat for," Laura mused and swallowed. "Predicted her own death, too."

"Really?"

"Yup, spent every day of her last week with us. Told me all the stories she didn't want me to know as a kid and ate a lot of junk food. She made Cora and me go through all my grandma's cook books for cakes."

"Sounds… like a good lady."

"She was. I feel like she's still around. The alpha power gets inherited after death, spiritual mystique stuff, so I feel her all the time." She said, bouncing on her toes over the grass and on to rough dirt where the make shift roads were kept temporarily travel worthy.

They came to the entrance of stage 1, a small point of entry with no hall way like the others. Just one ramp leading up and an open back where a few dollies and crates were parked.

"We're having a party tonight by the Club House before Wood Run, Derek'll tell you about it." Laura said, inching toward the sectioned off area. "It's an open party, no brawls. You should bring your band. I want to instill some wisdom in that wolf of yours," She pocketed her hands in to the leather coat the was too big to her own.

"He needs it," Stiles laughs. "Good luck up there."

\--

The performance goes great. Absolutely splendid. Except for when the speaker on the left hand side of the stage blew out and began a small electrical fire right next to Kira's feet mid way through the bass solo in I Have A List. When she hoped around in terror, the crowd just ate it up like she was dancing along to the rest of the rhythm. By the time the sound crew could smell the burning wires and rubber, every melodic note that made the Paving Company sound like a band playing to a group of 150 people all but became silence.

Luckily, it was the last song in their set so the lost two minutes weren't as much of a tragedy as it would lead them all to believe.

In desperate need of something to cool her feet down, Kira clung to the ever calm level headed Lydia is search of a solo cup full of beer (or at least someone's kind and secret flask of gin). Meanwhile, Allison enacted what had to have been the most involved debate over electrical wiring any staff member of the Hell Sparrow Music Festival ever experienced (more threatening than her sequined smiley face top would make her look). Stiles and Scott shared a bottle of water in the shade of a far off tree, as far away from the mess of a performance as they could reach.

"You guys sounded great in the first set. Got the crowd riled up really quickly," Stiles took a swig, digging his fingernails in to the bottle's plastic cap.

"Yeah. Hopefully we'll get the invite back." Scott said. He sounded exhausted, the stress of travel shaking down to mush.

"I can see you guys playing here for a pretty long time," Stiles replied.

"Yeah? You gotta be there with us, man," he said, tapping Stiles' shoulder with the back of his palm.

"You know it," Stiles said, the hint of a lie in his throat he tried to wash down.

They made out the silhouette of Allison, her sparkly top glittery in the distance with its impish eyeball grin plush on her chest. The top was famous in the small community of their listeners, appearing on their first album cover when they needed an image to set them apart. It became Allison's uniform, her care for it showing no limits when she restitched fallen sequins to its cheap base.

Neither Scott or Stiles could gauge her expression but expected the worst from how they left her on stage. Yet, coming into view she looked content, she wasn't scratching the middle of her brow like habitual worrying had compulsed her to. She was lugging one of her black milk crates on her hip, long black beads hanging from her neck bouncing down against her belt buckle.

Scott jumped up, dashing to meet her despite his own exhaustion, with Stiles slowly following at a tumbling speed. He took the crate from her, not fighting her for it, like a natural gesture giving to another limb.

"How'd it go?" He asked in a hushed voice, soft and placating.

Allison huffed, frustration radiating off her at the shoulders, "It was definitely not our equipment that caught fire. This really unhelpful volunteer stage hand kept trying to bullshit his way through a manual until a coordinator could come over. I figured, the speaker on that side was overheating. Turns out, I was right."

"You are remarkably calm about this." Stiles pointed out. In truth, Allison was a delightful human being, sweeter than honey and kinder than a bumble bee. But her disillusion with the music performance industry came from experience. Too much of her time was piddled away trying to vie for better time slots, proper lighting, comps, trading extra provided tickets for amenities they could use, and the ever elusive agreement to return. Her equipment was labeled with her name, address, and phone number so blatantly that she could spot it from the other side of a crowded bar as it wandered out in to the street. Allison gave a lot but she gave no leeway for errors she wasn’t responsible for.

"Well this woman came up and talked us all down. She saw the whole thing and explained how it happened to her like three years ago on stage. Apparently they've been using the same wiring for the past sixteen years," She explained. "We’re not liable for anything and the staff apologized. Simple as that."

"Think we'll get invited back next year?" Scott asked, slight concern in the drawl of his voice.

"Actually, I think so. One of the coordinators said we had a lot more people show up than most first time bands get. Then that woman was comparing us to all these other top name acts they book every year so…we did great. Fire aside," she said, wiping a pearl of sweat from her forehead. The heat of the afternoon was starting to beat down, gentle breezes becoming seldom.

Scott sunk his shoulders with relief, sighing all the weight of stress kept in the pit of his stomach. "That's, good, that's great."

"Did you end up catching the last of Valerie June's act, Stiles?" Allison asked.

"Nah, I didn't really think it was appropriate to run off. She plays in SoCal all the time, not like we can't see her down there." Stiles says, waving off the excitement he had to see her.

"Hmm, too bad because I just got us all invited to a VIP backstage party tonight and she's doing a private performance," Allison teased, reveling in the slow budding spark of total captivation in the corner of Stiles eyes.

"Seriously? Oh my god, that is perfect, how did you even manage that?" He asked.

"It's the second time today I got invited. The curly haired girl who came up to me earlier-"

"The one who wasn't hitting on you?" Stiles interrupted, catching the worry of Scott as he said it.

"Yes, Stiles. The one who wasn't hitting on me," Allison rolled her eyes. "She invited me and then the woman who stood up for us just now did too."

"A girl hit on you today?" Scott asked, confusion hanging of his slack jawed lips.

"Ok, missing the point entirely. Tonight, VIP Party, Valerie June, Rest Of The Gang, Parade, and tons of journalists. We might even get to do an acoustic set if someone doesn't show." Allison said, exuding excitement for the three of them.

"That, Jesus that is great, this is-wait, Rest Of The Gang is playing?" Stiles asks, back tracking to what he had heard Cora say earlier.

"Yeah, have you heard them?" She asks.

"That's Erica's band." Stiles says.

"Who's Erica?" Scott asks, adjusting the milk crate on his hip that was gouging in to his skin.

"She's Derek's sister, I think." Stiles replies, racking his brain for more information that he knew he heard at some point. He didn’t know if he met Erica last night but he definitely remembers hearing her name mentioned.

"Well, try and sweet talk her to see if we can play," Scott added. "Let's get going, though, this thing is leaving marks in my side."

\---

Derek did end up finding Stiles. Not in some kind of poignant search or invested way of looking, but eventually by happenstance and misfortune when Stiles was mid gulp into an overpriced watery Budweiser.

And when a hand gets clamped down on your shoulder while you're mid gulp in the middle of anything, an immediate response is to expel it all from your esophagus. Getting beer up the nose is not pleasant but it wasn't the worst thing that happened to Stiles that day. But make no mistake, it did burn.

With a steady stream of beer trickling down his face, sloshing between locked fingers over his mouth, Stiles tried his best to at least play it off as just a joke. He turned his head, swiping off all the excess fluid to the ground and setting his beer by his feet. He had kept a good supply of napkins in his pocket from earlier, dashing one out and wiping down his mouth. Through nearly diseased sounding coughs, he stifled a very gravely 'hey'.

"God, sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out." Derek apologized, palming little circles on Stiles' back, hoping it would stop his convulsing. "You alright?"

"Yeah yeah, totally fine. I've had worse, swear," He chided, clearing his throat. "I'd say you owe me a beer but you fed me about a dozen yesterday so I figure it even."

Derek chuckled, a great big nervous smile that was too cruelly beautiful to be anything but illegal. But the sweet upturn of his lips was knee-knockingly kind, practically radiating humility.

"Wouldn't mind buying you one anyway," Derek said, slightly cocking humor to his voice. "Wanted to talk."

"Oh, about what?" Stiles asked, straightening up and noticing the lingering touch of Derek's fingers hovering on the top seam of his flannel.

Derek pulled back his hand, pocketing it in his jeans. "Laura told me she invited you to the party at the Club House."

"She did, wait, shit, I completely spaced about that," Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck. "My band got invited to some VIP party tonight."

"Oh, that's too bad for us then. What party?" Derek asked, that sweet smile slowly fading.

"I don't know where or who's hosting it but I know your sister's band is playing a private set." Stiles said.

"Erica's band?" Derek asked.

"Yeah, Rest Of The Gang? Her and Valerie June and Parade too." Stiles replied.

"That's…they're playing at the Club House tonight."

It took Stiles a second to click the information together, using his context clues like a sleuthing eight year old in English class. "I may have been invited three separate times without realizing."

Derek chuckles again, that grin rising again, "You seem popular enough to warrant it."

"You think I'm popular? Please don't meet my band mates, they'll change your mind about that." Stiles joked, picking up his beer by his feet.

"But you'll come tonight?" Derek asks.

"Wouldn't miss it," Stiles smiled, taking a long drink from the bottle, small specks of sand falling from its bottom and getting caught in the fold of his sleeve.

\--

The Club House on Hell Sparrow Island was a near dilapidated building, moss coating and devoid of mold only by the grace of god. With the entire island being submerged for only three days out of the year, all the man made additions weren't welcomed by its ecosystem. The thick forest of trees were untouched by the rising tides, emerging from the water and sand dried and smelling like these two days were their only chance at spring.

Everything on the island smelled wonderful, which must have been a pest for anyone with a heightened nose, normally. But with the out of balance melody of elements nothing worked like its intentions wanted. The obstructing normalcy of some things and the intruding emotions of others rendered the weekend a slight farce as far as order goes.

Which is exactly how Stiles finally met Derek's third sister.

Through an unexpected delightful disaster she found herself in, Erica needed a help folding over the last parts of her slightly delusional plan, all thanks to the magical properties of a wrinkle inducing bird.

That late afternoon had been something of a dream for Stiles, walking with Derek like their shoulders had magnets in them, serendipitous to avoid The Paving Company. Mostly it was perfect. The little downtrodden parts where they fumbled against one another were the only problems, awkwardly unsure of where hands could go when knocked around by strangers in various crowds. Derek had a protective second sense, blocking other persons from ramming into Stiles.

And they lost sense of where time was going while they bounced from each stage, planning out which performances they absolutely needed to see. They kept agreeing, unknown where their interests even matched up, and elated to find out what they loved. Derek adored Barbara Electric and The Mighty Left Hand Man, laughed at all the jokes the front man of Rawr Car made between songs, and had an open disgust from Sunshine Vaccine. Each opinion he had folded perfectly into Stiles' own.

When they walked from stage to stage, they made conversation. Stiles genuinely wanted to know more about his teaching and his published works. He's never been more interested in werewolves, getting enough info out of Scott when he turned back in high school, than when he was with Derek. He could eat and breathe werewolf factoids like tik taks and never get sick of them if Derek was

"You seriously taught in Vancouver?" Stiles asks. They were walking out on the last song of Dustbowl Revival, not feeling the twangy rhythms were appropriate that late in the day.

"Just for a year. It was right before my mother died. I came back for the funeral and found out how much I missed California. Berkeley is only a few hours from the pack territory so it's easier on them," Derek replied. He'd done most of the talking all day, telling Stiles all about his research on Pre and Post Colonial werewolves, working towards his doctorate.

"Where is your pack's territory, anyway?" Stiles asked.

"Mostly the Lassen area, right by the national park and volcano. It's a lot of land, we're independent from the park but they work with us as preservation agents. It's surprising how many werewolves these days work for the government as conservationists. If you look at their live webcams and see a wolf, it's one of us." Derek explained.

"You ever think of settling down back there?" Stiles asked, feeling like he was posing questions Derek didn't have answers for.

"Sometimes," He replied. "I'm not that well suited to be in cities but I can't make a living teaching anywhere else. You think you'll stay in the south?"

"No idea, I travel so much with the band that I haven't found a place I like more than Beacon Hills. When my dad retires I'm hoping he'll sell the house and travel, always wanted to with my mom. He's not the kind of guy who puts on a staying-hat when he doesn't have to." Stiles explained.

"Staying hat?" Derek made a face.

"The hat that you put on when you settle down, a staying hat." Stiles mimed fixing a hat on his head, something with a wide flopping brim.

"You're got words for everything, don't you?" Derek chuckled. He pulled out his phone for the time. "I have to head out, I'm moderating a presentation with an Algonquin pack in 15 minutes."

"At a music festival?" Stiles raised an eyebrow.

"We only get together once a year," Derek shrugged. "I had a really great time today... I'll see you at the Club House in a few hours. I'll come find you." He lingered just a bit, waiting for Stiles to nod or say something in return.

"I'll wait for you," Stiles replied. It was enough for Derek, giving a small wave as he walked in the opposite direction, enveloped in to the bustling crowd of people.

Stiles hadn’t really noticed any of the crowds while Derek was with him, too preoccupied to care about careless shapeshifters, witches, and various demon folk alongside the occasional human companion. Some of the costumes he'd spotted in the long parade march that morning knocked in to him, blinded by masks or their own giddy excitement.

He was noticing them now, stumbling around in droves or singular persons with naturally discolored pigmentation only seen in climates that support their frail constitutions. He'd never been around this many super natural persons in one place, they exuded a kind of atmosphere that made him oddly comfortable, not out of place in the constant distant bellowing from the stages.

Stiles figured it was time to check in with the Paving Company, having avoided them since the earlier disaster. He assumed that Allison and Scott were locked at the hand and taking in the romance of it all wherever they could find it.

Then Kira would probably be erratically schmoozing every pretty girl she could come across. She'd be failing miserably at flirting attempts since most of her pickup lines included chaste compliments and then the inevitable descent into topics only she was interested in. But if Lydia was her wing man, she would be steered into the right direction. But that would then end with the pretty girls being unintentionally wooed by Lydia, such is the life of a banshee.

The Paving Company a wildly disastrous bunch and not to be left unsupervised. Between the events of this morning, an unfortunate destruction of property at a show three weeks ago when Lydia's overzealous humming turned to keening and blew a speaker, and an unintentional fight that broke out when Scott wrongly assumed a city's stance on baseball, they were a collective smorgasbord of mayhem.

Trying to find his way back to their campsite in the makeshift parking structure was a feat all on its own. The general outline of the island had him bypassing the stages by going around them, a twenty minute walk crossing through what he remembered was where Derek's pack set up. He could walk past, maybe get spot by a wolf who recognized him on the off chance they hadn't moved on. He genuinely liked the pack, the drunken memories and the sober ones starting to intertwine for a cohesive picture.

For the most part he liked the pack, he only met a few, after all. But they were sweet, engaged in everything that seemed foreign to Stiles after growing up with just himself and his dad.

He still hadn't met the elusive third sister, beginning to wonder about her and how she fit against the boy, Boyd, whom she was apparently falling in love with at a hundred miles an hour.

Luckily, in that moment, he learned that Erica took many things a hundred miles an hour, including introductions.

Like a slap on the back, Stiles felt a rough talon hand slam into his shoulder blade, grabbing the loose fabric of his flannel. He stumbled backward, losing his balance and being steadied upright by arms smelling vaguely of brown patent leather. Upright he was face to face with bloody red lips and a golden ratioed perfect jawline that could snap his own in half.

"HEY," she basically shouted in to his face, her breath smelling vaguely of summery melon gum.

"HI," he basically shouted back, his voiced unsteady. He grabbed on to her arms, pushing them away from chest to a safe distance.

"Stiles, right?" She asked, pushing her arms back like a dominant reflex.

"Yeah," He replied, engaging in a game of chicken over his own chest. "Who're you?"

"Erica!" She said, out of breath and huffing. "You're all over my pack brother, Derek. You seem nice and I need a favor."

"Oh, Erica!" Stiles settled down, forcing Erica's arms down to her own side. "I'll help or whatever, just calm down. I'm a breakable human, not a wolf or anything."

"Sure sure, fine, I'm in like a hurry. Here's the thing. My brother's been on about you all last night and this morning. We're like diaries, crap we don't tell anyone else we say to each other. Guy digs you. I'll help you if you help me. I really, can't even get it why, love this boy. Like, Romeo and Juliet bullshit love him. But this island does weird shit when you're here and I need to know if it's real bullshit love and not bird bullshit love. I, I gotta…" Erica falters, bending down to catch her breath with labored breathing.

"Aren't you a werewolf? How are you tired?" Stiles asked, confused as all could be and patting Erica on the back trying to be helpful.

She held up a hand, pausing the conversation and wheezed. Standing up right, tussled hair mixed about on her shoulders. She breathed easier, gulping and sighing. "It's the bird. We're just puppies until the moon comes out at Wood Run. And that's what I need. Keep Derek distracted at the Club House Party, keep him calm and not mad."

"What's he like when he gets mad?" Stiles asks, slightly concerned.

"He could curdle milk in a cow he gets so sour," She says, as serious as her tactful eyebrows could get. "He's good, but he broods. It's annoying. Keep him occupied, it's all I need, really.

"Alright... I can do that, I guess," Stiles was mostly unsure of what he was agreeing to. "You're not doing anything I'd have to testify about, are you?"

"No, go no! It's what I'm not doing that'll make him mad. Man, I don't even know how I'm gonna fix that, no one's on stand by." Erica mused, running a shaky hand through her mussed hair. "You and your like Pacing Company or whatever all gonna come, right?"

"Paving, and yeah, I don't think they'd miss it," he replied.

"Good, good, Laura kept going on about your crappy band, they'll really help," she said, relieved in the slightest.

"Crappy?"

"I mean great, great band, you're great," she smiled, wide and fake and pristine.

"Uh huh. Cranberries tribute band?"

"Don't have time to defend Ireland so shut up," Erica poked him in the chest. "You do this for me and I'll owe you."

He's not sure what he's gotten himself in to but it comes with favors.


	3. Like after the rain, step out of the overhang, that's all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also dedicated to FreakHour for saying amazing things about that last two chapters ♥♥♥
> 
> This was absolutely suppose to be the last chapter but it's been a year and I wanted /something/ to go up. So there'll 4 instead of 3 chapters. *shrugs*  
> I've made some minor (mainly syntax and spelling mistakes and also some plot fuck ups) fixes to the previous chapters seeing as there were a fuck ton.

In all ways possible, Hell Sparrow county was an inconvenience. Uninhabitable and too far away from any developments of civilization to make it a reasonable place to set up shop. Nobody really ever thought to put a gas station, restaurant, or hotel. Even if business could boom in sales of petrol, over night accommodations, and corn nuts for two days out of the year it wasn't enough of a reason for anybody to do just that. Not even a nimble little mom n' pop shop in the distance of a stone's throw.

67 years of a music festival did get a good foundation of people who could supplement that, however. The Hell Sparrow Island Music Festival was run by the Sparrowette Foundation and its committee. With the dedication to keep the festival free for admission and performers, it took private donations and sponsor ship from organizations all through the West Coast and Canada (because enough chatter had been made in 1987 that Super Naturals should get tax write offs too). 

Some of these donors included the Mid-West Harbor Coven (an oxymoron if there ever was one) and the Brothers & Shifters Foundation For A Better Life, all who ran clubs that volunteered for the Hell Sparrow festival and privately donated operation and overhead costs.

These good Samaritans, teenagers druids, and bored fledging mystics all ran around the weekend in blue t-shirts and aprons with the Hell Sparrow cartoon silhouette printed on their chests. Much to their dismay, they would spend most of it tackling difficult to pick up garbage, abet the slightly drunk covenettes, extinguish rogue ifrits looking to set fire to the crab grass, and keep the merfolk walking on land from getting dehydrated.

For the veterans volunteers, they were lucky enough to get assigned backstage responsibilities and maintenance for sponsored after parties (lucky only if equipment didn't catch fire or tents didn't collapse or nauseous vampires didn't vomit on refreshment tables).

And then there was the unfortunate business of Wood Run for which served as initiation for the newbies. All newbies, even the excited patrons who got conned into purchasing tickets. No one had an explanation for Wood Run, a hexed trick of the tongue you only got when you experienced it. 

On the edge of the usually submerged forest on Hell Sparrow island, a thick barrier of silken birch wood ash was buried under dwarfed saplings. Blessed by old clever druids, it was so tightly bound to the forest it might as well have been sewn. And its purpose was just that, to sew the happenings in that forest behind quiet mouths. 

No one talked of wood run for any number of reasons. The intended siphoning of tongues was one and then the sole respect of tradition was another, maybe a splash of ignorance too. Much like the effects of anything that happens to anybody, it varied from person to person all the way down to species to species. Birds couldn't remember where nests were and raccoons didn't have a lick of sense as to why they vacated a place full of unpicked fruit after they wandered off, drunk with fructose on a sugar high.

Shifters and more magically inclined beings saw things with a shade more of comfort. A great deal of supernatural inclinations was the less than scientific understanding of exactly how their world worked and a morose comparison of "this feels like" to "I heard this is true". The sense of unsure feelings and small aired hiccups of wonder were what they relied on. So only talked about how Wood Run felt like cracking stiff knuckles, relief in the form of a firecracker when it sputtered to a cinder and smoke.

Wood Run was a comfort they could only find once a year.

So when The Good Intentions Paving Company was invited to the party that preceded Wood Run, livening up the anticipatory swell of fur or claw or feather breaking through skin, they felt the fire starting up their tails.

"Apparently humans can go through it too," Allison explained when they all met up by opened the rear doors of Good Up Jo'. They were readjusting equipment and milk crates for a comfortable makeshift love den. Scott was straining to carry half of his weight in equipment.

"Humans can go through the shift?" Stiles asked, completely lost in how she was even explaining it. In her words, it was a starting pistol race around the island, through the thicket forest all for the sake of running in between trees. By that logic, it would be more of a race to run around the festival grounds, carrying aether rods as batons, with every patron cheering them on. And the notion that it was a race didn't make much sense when seeing just how shrouded in mystery that forest really was. Every side of every tree and leaf didn't seem to cast shadows but, instead, caught them. In broad daylight and artificial light in the shade of dusk, nothing was illuminated in that forest. Those trees didn't feed on sunlight, they consumed it entirely. The eeriness of it stood strong, radiating not so much a 'Deadly Woods' vibe as much as a 'Trees? How fascinating' vibe.

"No, I mean they can do the run too," Allison replied. "I heard from a couple of the volunteers that it's open to everybody."

"What's the point though? It's not like anyone who isn't a shifter could win."

"I think that is the point. I don't think it's a race," Allison mused, tossing blankets over he shoulder, keys on the long yellow lanyard round her neck clattering on themselves.

"If it's not a race, then what is it?"

"An excuse to run," Allison shrugged.

Stacking them without interlocking in an orderly fashion, Allison positioned crates to high towering pillars. She pushed back two duffle bags (since Allison forbid the wasted space of suitcases) and started tugging at the root of the collapsible tent everyone aside from her and Scott would be using.

"It does seem like it'd be fun," Scott wheezed from behind them.

"Are you gonna need an inhaler?" Stiles asked, grabbing cords and crates out of Scott's hands before he could collapse. "We've got your old one in the glove compartment, don't be a whimp about it."

"I'll be fine," Scott said incredulously, turning his head and letting out two violent coughs. "But seriously, Allison, why don't you and me try it out?"

"We could…" She mused again, rolling the thought over her tongue and teeth. "But babe, I thought we were going to have our turn in the van?"

"We can try for both. We're over achievers, right?" Scott grinned, stepping toward the back of the van to where Allison draped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him in for a sweet luscious kiss.

And that's about where Stiles set all the gear he was holding on the ground and wandered off. He was all about Team Arrow and Claw but there was a quota he had to manage before his gag reflexes saw the full capacity of their smaltzyness. They laid it on thick sometimes without even realizing it and if he was going to have to be locked in a van going up another freeway with them after they'd had their roadster sexcapades then Stiles was going to need his Smaltzy Levels at zero for at least the evening. The afterglow of their romantic getaway spaces was so potent and sweet that they could walk in to a breeze and see the ghosts of themselves made entirely out of powdered sugar.

It was enough to spike blood sugar just by looking at them.

And this weekend he was in the throes of a rare occasion where he actually believed in love rather than looking on as an anticupid. Or maybe he wouldn't call it love but rather, a fondness for company? General romantic interest? Hot. He was hot for sweet potato wolf.

And with Sweet Potato Wolf keeping the happenstance distance from The Paving Company, he could revel in these anti-gravity feelings of so strongly liking someone he'd had such few interactions with on his own. Sans the peanut gallery. 

He was starting to worry about what the rest of the Hale pack had said about the effects of the Sparrow. Something or other about it being an amp for feelings and the hocus pocus of it looming through out the weekend and over. 

It all seemed a little far fetched, the unintentional matchmaking of a dumb fat song bird. Stiles had seen upfront the effects of asshole magic, his fair share of hexes and the legal ramifications that followed (filing a police report on a witchling was unfairly nerve wracking).

Even if his interactions with Derek were flirtatious and fun, the idea that they weren't his feelings was concerning. 

Concerning in the "I feel a speech about you-don't -know-i-feel/I'm-in-control-of-my-destiny coming on" way. General concern all around.

But it was easy, to just think about how only a little while ago, he was walking with Derek and talking about ska with Derek and asking Derek about his scholarly endeavors. Those insipid little thoughts were gooey and soft, pleasant to just replay in his head.

He didn't really have anything to do for the next hour, all the equipment safely in the van with the exception of the many hard copies of their first album and ep (Allison beamed when she learned they could leave out samples at the after party). But it felt like an ideal time to look for the rest of the Paving Company given how meandering Kira and Lydia could be together.

Kira was more fox like than she'd lead on at times, happily content with darting off in semi lucid states of wonder. Her sudden piqued star eyes set on complimenting pretty girls or asking and then explaining something like the significance of gold jewelry in modern apparel or a popular tv show with partially accurate symbolism. She rambled in an endearing way, text book verses falling from her lips in meandering speeds. 

When this occurred (and that's a very big "when") it didn't take much to scare off ladies. When she met a girl and got the "Kira, we're leaving" from Scott or Stiles, she'd take it upon herself to divulge a full overview of who she was flirting with, their history, and the highlights of their conversations. And in that time of Kira facing the other direction , the girl in question would slink off under the exit sign without a word.

If Lydia was at her side, quietly suggesting things that could stimulate conversation on both parts, it normally worked. Right up until the girl got enamored with Lydia's shiny coppery curls and rosey freckled face. And when Lydia spoke in soft tallowed compliments about Kira her words just acted as melodic notation, hypnotic in the glossy eyes of the girl. And then they were back to square one.

There was one girl that Stiles remembered very vividly, pale and petite from another band's fan base at a last minute show. She was a prickly girl with electric blue nails and obscene highlights that accented her piercings. He only remembered her because she never let Kira talk, and somehow they were both okay with that. She stood out in rude parts of speech, hell content on being the center of attention for dumb reasons. 

She was memorable, in the way that nobody ever got her name, and she never popped up in conversation, and Kira didn't care to get her phone number.

But those were the kinds of girls that stayed when Kira flirted; the blunt, too loud, and humiliated themselves for the sake of their ego. So Kira's luck in finding a sweet, quiet, girl with a decent amount of hubris was unlikely.

But the look in Kira's eyes when she did find a girl, even the unlikely, was mesmerizing. Most people get a metaphorical glow when they meet somebody great, all smiles and soft eyes and "so blessed" attitude. Kira literally glowed. A calming ethereal glow that manifested in her nails and few freckles, sometimes spilling light from her pores if she was excited enough. It was enough of a party trick to get invested in at bars and clubs after a show, everybody stared at the girl with the vodka soda who was radiating warm yellow light. And if she stuck her finger in a cold drink to illuminate ice cubes it wasn't a minute until she was infested with a crowd handing her drinks that she was meant to bless.

So when Stiles spotted a warm afterglow haunting over her in the distance like a solar flare licking the atmosphere, he immediately knew to approach with caution and look for Lydia first.

They were both looming at separate overturned barrels, meant to serve as chairs and tables as provided by a food chain that specialized in pulled pork tenderloin and bacon made from non traditional livestock. Kira was talking to a girl Stiles recognized as one of the Hale cousins eating a messy barbecue sandwich and sipping on a cherry cola. 

Kira was rambling, even from the distance Stiles could recognize what she looked like when she did, shoveling knowledge out in droves like a first year teacher. The sandwich she had ordered was as cold in front of her, a moment away from gathering fruit flies.

And despite the exploding star that Kira became, she hadn't attracted the appropriate crowd. Still, a hue of people, dressed up in street clothes and costumes, made a reserved circle around her while using the tables to eat, glancing up in between bites. It gave an atmosphere that it looked normal from afar, the presence of a fox spirit girl perfectly reasonable considering there were other entities around that glowed with more violent light if you bought them a drink first.

The Hale cousin nodded along, perspective fixed on Kira's rambling and flying hand gestures. She looked dully enthused but the subtle curve of a smile tugged on her lips every time Kira accidentally dipped her hand in the tiny ketchup bowls and she knocked her knee on the barrel or tipped and caught her water bottle.

Her subtle grins were enough to convince Stiles he didn't need to intervene. 

Apparently it was enough for Lydia too. Stiles wandered a few tables down and found her half hidden behind a genuine bucket of french fries, lazily blowing hums and sighs in to a silver harmonica. 

"Baby bird left the nest?" Stiles asked, pulling up the seat next to her and pecking at the top of the fry bucket. 

Lydia gave him a side eye, maybe judging him for infantilizing Kira like everyone tended to do. But she shrugged it off and played a long aired C. She clamped her teeth down on the harmonica and leaned forward on her elbows. Sighing heavier than an forlorn puppy she played the first note of "Our House" by mistake.

"I know how you feel, the first time Scott blew me off for a girl I didn't even wanna look at him," Stiles said, matching Lydia's pose. "But now he and Allison do all they can to poison everybody with how cute they act."

Lydia looked at him, a little bored waiting for him to divulge the rest of his grievances. 

"I mean, it's the best thing that they got together, but him and me are different. He's got Allison and the band and everything. And I have that too, Allison is also the best thing that's happened to me. But it's him and Allison or him and me and Allison. No other combo.

"And maybe, sometime it'll be him and Allison and me and my girlfriend. That's what I'm saying, it's all about the...combos."

Lydia wasn't listening, just back to watching Kira who spilled her entire bottle of water on the ground and was still going on about how the musical stylings of The Zip Driven were directly inspired by The Beach Boys despite their punk rock facade.

\----

Stiles encounter with Erica earlier had been bothering him since she slammed in to his back and nearly shook his spine out. He's a-ok with taking favors and doling them out, that's not the bothering part. But the part where she said Derek tells her things that he doesn't tell anyone else, apparently the kind of things that his other sisters might berate him for (and all Erica could think to do was lightly insult Stiles' band mates). What could Derek be telling her that she would help Stiles? What exactly could she even help with?

Derek lived in Berkeley and Stiles lived in a town that no one had ever heard of. And when no one's ever heard of it that means they live absolutely nowhere near it.  
Which was fine, honestly. It was for the better. He hadn't expected to make anything more than a couple of happenstance connections or gain a few followers for the band's twitter. It was absolutely ludicrous to expect anything other than that. This weekend was a job, the first stop on a tour of many other jobs, a series of tasks he was inclined to accomplish and do so for other people.  
But he couldn't? He couldn't really just stop himself from just seeing the work and the band and the-

And it was the bird. It was absolutely the goddamned bird. It was the stupid fuckin' sparrow that was making him feel so stupid and childish. Giving him wrinkles. There was no other explanation. Stiles didn't get hung up on anyone (other than Lydia Martin for a total of a seven weeks which was absolute NOT the fault of any birds) and he refused to let himself get hung up on a perfectly nice guy who didn't deserve some kind of disappointing weekend he'll just go on regretting because of a goddamned fat pigeon.

Why did he think it was disappointing? Why did that pop up in his head? He heard Erica, she said (breathless for all the non-romantic boring reasons) that Derek digs him. What kind of shit is that? Digs him. But he does, dig him, that is. And Stiles digs him right back, bleary eyed like it stresses him out and leaves him sleepless with some fusion of worry and ecstasy. 

Rushing in to something that was so impractical it didn't even have an expiration date would be disappointing. That was for sure. 

So he just blamed Kira, who looked so natural sitting with that Hale cousin. And he blamed Erica and her own mystery between that guy Boyd. And he blamed Allison and Scott for all their perfect planning and excitement over being alone in an old van. And he was just so caught up in the curlicue ampersands that came with signing two names together.

Those stupid combos…

And he blamed himself for walking around alone on the edge of the festival grounds where there were only two directions; into a mess of woods and then the sprawling deserted waste of a healthy tundra. It had its own particular beauty, the kind of mesmerizing flatness of a desert with a light playful breeze swooping in and out of wild grass. There wasn't any danger out here aside from the maddening realization that there was nothing for miles. Ideal for a music festival, boisterous and noisy, even better for creatures that roamed at paces faster than sports cars and broke barriers when they screamed for the hell of it.

At some point in history explorers found this land, in its flat state with ecological marvels and occasional avian magic, and passed up the opportunity for a future on it. They went North to make beautiful cities that funneled rain down its streets, they went south to make a failed Riviera, and they went to the craggily rocks of the Pacific to mark lighthouses for ships and sirens alike. Hell Sparrow was left to its own devices.

The woods just in the middle of the island seemed peaceful enough, lined with tiny freakish trees that Stiles figured didn't get much of a chance to grow when they were underwater for 362 days out of the year. He absentmindedly walked by the saplings, occasionally running a hand over their top branches that only came up to his hips. He wondered why their pointed leaves ran so cold across his fingers but didn't think much of it. 

From the edge of the festival grounds he watched as the last performances got taken over for bonfires and open dance floors. The costumes were back to catch the radiant flames of the sunset that hung low in the sky.

He could see the Yakama teenagers from that morning, bright brilliantly colored shawls with shelled and belled fringe that hung down to their ankles as they bounced on heels, waiting the beat of a rhythm to guide them. Their small gathering of hipster vamps, elated behind thick sunglasses, and exhausted volunteers in Hell Sparrow aprons made a semi-circle, their cries of support and echoes of matched rhythms just as powerful as the caverns of an amphitheater. Their acoustics, voices that didn't know the significance of what they echoed, gave the cue for the dancers to launch themselves in small jumps, their shawls becoming wings and their fringe becoming feathers. They followed one another, no choreography mapped out beneath them in memory, just the quelling sensation that every thrust of their arms got them closer to the sky.

Stiles wanted to join the audience, to better understand how the four step movements made them felt. He knew the dance conveyed, they did it so well he understood but he wanted to ask, wanted to know how they would put words to a sight so mesmerizing. 

The curl of a breeze on his back distracted him, a feeling so strong he could swear a hand traced the back seam of his shirt. He turned around and saw nothing, just the unchanged far off peaceful darkness of the woods.

When he turned back there was Boyd. Tiptoeing and stalking quieter than a house cat, he was hiding against the side paneling of Stage 5, almost entirely vacated except for some volunteers locking up the last of several stereos on to a hand cart and a couple of mergirls privately coating their plush scales in petroleum jelly. 

Boyd looked nervous in the way that persons who didn't quite have a handle on what they were doing looked suspicious. Stiles knew little of Boyd aside from a few sentences and two contradicting gestures, but he could tell he was anything but nervous. Boyd exuded a kind of masculine charm that perfume companies spent billions trying to recreate artificially. He was a statue of a man and statues stand strong and Boyd looked more like a clay sculpture of a anxious baby deer.

Boyd had a hand at his teeth, chewing his thumbnail down to the quick and staring off in to the distance when Stiles walked up. Calling out when he didn't see him, Stiles' yelled, "Boyd!". Which just made him jump higher than the Yakama dancers.

"Jesus man! Don't give me a heart attack," Boyd yelped, cursing under his breathe and running his hands up and down his arms, clad in a heavy leather coat. 

"Sorry! Sorry man, I was just over there and saw you. You looked kinda like you were hiding..." Stiles trailed off pocketing his hands so he wouldn't flail wildly to explain himself.

"I'm not hiding, I'm waiting," Boyd corrected, shaking his arms out and bouncing on his feet like a boxer. "And if I was hiding, you really think I want you to tell everyone where I am?"

"Yeah, that's...good point," Stiles bit his lip, watching Boyd's feet as he tried to think of something more reassuring than 'sorry'. "What are you waiting for, exactly?"

Boyd eyed him like it was a dumb question. Which it wasn't, invasive is what is really was, maybe even a little rude. 

"I only ask since you look like you're going to pop out of your skin. And you...don't even know who I am, but all of Derek and his sisters talk about you so, maybe you need an impartial ear? You look like you need an impartial ear, all I'm saying. Stiles the impartial ear, door's always open," Stiles explained, giving up and gesticulating with his hands when he couldn't make his point clear. 

The long pause that followed broke at Boyd's dramatic sigh, frustration deep in his shoulders falling off like a cloak. He sunk his face in his hands, muffled voice saying, "I'm about to do something real dumb, man."

"Real dumb like you might hurt yourself or real dumb like it's just not a great idea?" Stiles asked stalking up, wondering if Boyd would be okay with a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Neither!" Boyd perked up, "Right now, it's exactly what I'm suppose to do. I just know it's absolutely crazy but it feels like the right thing to do."

"Boyd, dude, use your words," Stiles said, going with the hand on his shoulder, surprised at how far he had to reach up.

He looked at Stiles, all the light and more returning to his face, a nearly dazed expression of enlightened bliss right there in his eyes. "There's priestess that Erica knows, we want to get married during Wood Run."

"Ah," Stiles paused for a moment, "That explains things...Right but, Ok! Hey! We can work with this. Why do you want to get married right now? I know you guys are serious but why right now?"

"I can't explain it, it feels like now or never. I don't want to leave here unless it's as her husband."

"You get that that's kinda weird, right?"

"Why do you think I'm hiding?" He chuckled.

"I thought you weren't hiding," Stiles asked, the smallest bit of humor in his voice. He wanted to keep Boyd level headed, talk him through it.

"I didn't intend to. Erica and I were going to meet at the 4th stage but.."

"But that's where Derek's lecture ended, right? Wow, ok," Stiles huffed, his hands still on Boyd's shoulder, drumming his index finger like he did when ideas were trapeezing around his skull.

He raced through a few scenarios. Nothing seemed like the perfect solution, aside from standing there and talking Boyd out of making a possibly horrid decision that he'd regret as soon as he stepped foot off this sinking island. But hearing Boyd, totally unsure and at the mercy of a force that (in half a century's time to uncover) no-one could explain, it made sense to Stiles. It didn't make a lick of sense in the real world. But in this world, where immortal chode pigeons dictated hypersensitive feelings on a whim, Boyd was taking responsibility. He wasn't blaming his and Erica's decisions on anyone or anything, wasn't taking the opportunity to out an immeasurably annoying force, wasn't giving up and separating himself for Erica. He was standing there, completely OK with the fact that a girl he met yesterday agreed to marry him.

"God, this is not how I pictured how this would go," Boyd rubbed the space in between his eyes. "It wasn't even my idea. Erica brought it up at lunch. Mouth full of food and she asked if I wanted to get married."

Append that; Boyd was standing there, completely OK with the fact that a girl he met yesterday asked him to marry her.

It was just as well, Erica did seem like a go-getter with all the crazy ideas. But that's what convinced Stiles, that's absolutely what convinced him. Even if the entirety of Derek's family might hate him after her helped their baby sister elope at a music festival in the middle of no man's land.

"Boyd. I got this," Stiles said, flashing a dinky thumbs up like the goddamned cartoon character he was.


End file.
